My Amish Childhood

by Jerry S. Eicher

  The party arrived at the river, well-stocked with supplies and ready to make their own raft Huckleberry Finn style—by lashing logs together.

  As they pushed the contraption into the water, they watched it sink nearly to the top of the logs. There it was, bobbing up and down low in the water without people on it, daring them, it seemed, to crawl on board.

  Should they continue? They looked at each other, finally verbalizing the question. But there was no turning back. Things would somehow work out. So one of them jumped on and bounced around.

  “See!” he said. “It’s not sinking in any deeper.”

  Encouraged, the others climbed on and strapped their supplies to the middle of the raft. They set out down the river. Things went peaceful enough for awhile. The river was smooth, and they were still in a slightly populated area. They camped for the night without mishap. They then picked up a waiting Mennonite couple, Wilmer and Miriam Dagan, who were scheduled to join them at a specific meeting place.

  I have no idea how everyone fit on the raft. I’ve seen pictures of it, and it was about ten by fourteen at the largest. How they managed with all the men, let alone a woman, on board is anyone’s guess. The trip continued smoothly for awhile, they claimed. Monkeys showed up in the trees as the jungle started closing in. An abundance of iguanas appeared, which they shot for meat.

  The first day of rapids was enough for the Mennonite couple. Miriam was left behind on a rock after the raft got stuck, and she couldn’t make it back on in time. Wilmer was thrown off from another impact, and the couple was soon joined in the river by both Uncle Mark and Manuel the guide. Eventually the remaining passengers cleared the rapids and made shore to wait for everyone to catch up.

  When everyone had gathered, Wilmer and Miriam decided to turn back. The others, undaunted, vowed to press on. And like the Amish do, they prayed and cast about for some way of helping themselves. The occasion for self-help came after a short stop at the jungle community of New Palestine, a communal place that had been founded by two Catholic priests. As was done in the days of early Christianity, the community held all goods in common, a practice followed in the Anabaptist tradition by the Hutterites. Though the Amish people don’t follow the tradition themselves, they find no end of fascination with anyone who does, so the rafting group had to visit the community.

  What they found appeared prosperous enough. Over 100 people living quite peacefully in the middle of nowhere. Their belief, also from the Bible, was that if anyone didn’t work, he didn’t eat. With that rule in force, some of the community had left, but most had stayed.

  Here the rafters obtained the first improvement for their journey—paddles of some sort. They proved far superior to the poles they’d been using. So armed, the journey continued. Perhaps nervous over the experience of the rapids encountered so far, the suggestion was made to hire another guide. All hands on board seconded the motion.

  A young boy, Fernando, who claimed he knew the river, was hired for the measly salary of three lempiras and a way back home.

  Skeptical over any claims of river knowledge from guides after Manuel’s pitiful performance at the first rapids, Uncle Mark watched the two carefully as they approached the next roar ahead of them. Who would be in charge? Would Fernando be any better than Manuel?

  Oblivious to Uncle Mark’s scrutiny, Fernando took charge. Even though he was the youngest, he gave directions at the point where the river split. He warned, “Stay on this side. Don’t go down there.”

  As they swept down the river, Uncle Mark looked over on the other side and saw huge rocks. Untold damage would have been done had they gone that way. He whispered his thanks to the Lord for guidance in hiring this young man. Uncle Mark also hung on.

  One night, deep in the jungle, they made camp. None of them knew where their location was or how they would get out in case of an emergency. Uncle Mark said they watched the moon hanging over the treetops, shining down on them before slowly setting. They didn’t think twice about the moon setting at the time, but it became a point of great interest when, sometime later, the moon was seen rising again as plain as day. Hadn’t they just watched it set? Yes, they had. They stared at the sight but couldn’t come up with a logical explanation. They finally figured maybe they were too tired or had seen too many rapids. Still puzzled the next morning, they wrote it off as one of those things that can’t be explained, easy enough to believe in the wild country they were in.

  The native Indians of Honduras were the first signs of civilization to appear again. They were more afraid of this raft full of bearded Amish men than the Amish were of them. The natives told them the worst of the rapids were behind them. Armed with this news, they began traveling nights to make better time since they were already long overdue. The folks back home would be worried.

  I never could comprehend how Uncle Mark knew there would be airplane service back to the capital from the northern coast of Honduras, but there was. After they arrived at the coast, a flight was booked to Tegucigalpa. From there the men followed the familiar dusty route home, arriving at the community after dark.

  Emil was the first to split off from the trio at the junction on Turk Road, heading toward his house in La Granja. Uncle Mark and David walked together up to the children’s home, and then Uncle Mark split off and went around the lane on the pond side.

  Uncle Mark claimed later he heard the guffaws all the way across the field that were elicited when David walked in on his children. I guess none of the men were aware how hairy and dirty they’d become on their adventure into the jungle—and smelly.

  Emil and David proclaimed the trip well worth the effort, but they also vowed to stay home for awhile. Uncle Mark laughed. He would soon be on the road again, he said. Off to somewhere.

  One evening we all gathered in Stephen Stoll’s former basement, which Cousin Ira still rented. Uncle Joe’s family, Uncle Alva, the Martins, Grandmother Stoll, and all of us were there as Uncle Mark held forth on the adventure of floating down the Patuca River.

  That same year the Catholic priests were doing more than starting communities like New Palestine. There were also agitators among the priesthood who stirred the poor farmers in Olancho to a fever pitch, turning them into land grabbers known in the country as campesinos. Idle land owned by the rich ranchers was seized and squatter huts built, all with the blessings of the Catholic Church.

  Uncle Joe reported being given a pamphlet on the subject that was circulating in underground fashion by the agitators. He said it was well written and contained considerable Scriptures. Obviously the Catholic priests felt themselves justified in their actions. The only recourse available to the ranchers was to call in soldiers from the capital. The soldiers then routed the campesinos from the land. In one case, this resulted in a gun battle that left dead on both sides. Eventually the soldiers had to leave, and the campesinos returned to occupy the land again.

  Frustration and fear ran high. Fausto told me that La Mansion, where Elsa’s father still lived, was under threat of attack. Most of the La Mansion ranch was in grassland with cattle on it. So whether the land was in use apparently wasn’t always included in the calculations on where to occupy next. Lying near the town of Guaimaca, the ranch was apparently too tasty a target to pass up.

  Rumors on the conflict swirled around the community. Truckloads of soldiers were seen passing by Bishop Monroe’s store. The fighters were jammed into the back of the open beds with their guns sprouting skyward. The national papers soon carried stories of missing priests in Olancho. The main figures involved in the agitation couldn’t be found, though their pickup was discovered abandoned and burned. Suspicion fell on a large ranch owner who had been the most vocal in expressing his hatred for the campesinos and their land seizures.

  The rancher professed his innocence, but in Honduras you are always considered guilty, especially if you deny the charges. The rancher was taken into Tegucigalpa for “questioning,” which usually means torture in that part of the world. The r
ancher soon confessed, whereupon bulldozers were brought in to check out the rancher’s story. I was along with Dad on a trip into Olancho later and saw the dozers sitting there. They apparently had to dig deep, but eventually they did uncover the bodies of the murdered priests.

  Chapter 37

  In the months that followed the campesino trouble, Uncle Joe was still trying to bring peace between the increasingly hostile parties at church. Occasionally he came by the house to speak with Mom and Dad. Those were conversations which I wasn’t privy to. Uncle Joe didn’t believe in children being involved in church politics.

  That didn’t keep me from being interested or finding out at least the basics of what was going on. The big issues in the community at the time were tractor farming and the German language. I already knew about the German problem from Dad’s quarrels with Danny Stoltzfus over the Sunday-morning singing, though Dad had largely abandoned that struggle since Spanish speaking had by now almost taken over at the services.

  I didn’t mind, since I could speak Spanish, but Bishop Monroe was trying for a compromise tailored for those who either hadn’t or couldn’t learn the language. The compromise was that a special German service was planned once a month. But even that was soon pushed to Sunday night. Uncle Joe, though, hadn’t given up, and his hope of using German in the Sunday-morning services never quite died out.

  I also heard mutterings around the house from Mom. She reported seeing women from La Granja going about the community without their haulsduch on. This was an outer piece of cloth that draped over the upper body of a woman’s dress. This was not part of Englisha-made dresses, but it gave extra protection from prying eyes. Mom said she’d approached the women because she was outraged by this flagrant disregard of modesty, only to be rebuffed with lectures on liberty and Christian charity.

  On my part, I feared having to leave Honduras more than anything. I knew that might be the result if things continued as they were. My church loyalties weren’t deep, though I was definitely on Mom, Dad, and Uncle Joe’s side. It didn’t hurt that the other side seemed to reside primarily over in La Granja, where I still had memories of Daniel and his cousin Paul’s school days antics.

  Finally Uncle Joe wrote a letter to the three ministers: Bishop Monroe and Ministers Vernon and Richard. Dad signed on, as did most of the others who had concerns. It was a sizable number of the community’s members. The result was that Bishop Monroe did more of his neutral dance, professing sympathy for both sides. Somehow they could all work together if they just tried harder. And there was return fire from the other side, justified in some cases. The emotions stirred Bishop Monroe deeply.

  Dad caught most of the incoming missiles due to his shop, which had indeed been modernized well beyond most Amish ordnung standards stateside. Being a true man of action, Dad at once made offers to amend the situation. He would gladly sell his shop, he said, if that would help. He even had a standing offer in hand for a sale, he claimed. His overture was rejected. His shop wasn’t the real reason for the problems.

  By November of 1975, Uncle Joe said he’d had enough. His family was leaving. Still, hope lingered in the air. In the meantime, Uncle Joe kept on working his farm. Even if he were leaving, the move would take some time. Perhaps something would happen before then. Some miracle that would change everything.

  I, for one, wished for it with all my heart.

  During this time, I was struggling with my new life as a Christian, which included deep bouts of depression for reasons no one could understand, least of all me. The confessions I’d made to Rosa Sanchez for her chickens and my arrogant attitude to Danny Stoltzfus no longer seemed sufficient repentance. I was still haunted with unrelenting and persistent guilt for the slightest error or slipup.

  I was welding in the shop one morning when Emil asked me how I was doing. A normal morning greeting. “Fine,” I said, not thinking twice about it. But as soon as I said it, I realized I really wasn’t fine. Should I tell Emil I have been struggling? I wondered. He was hard of hearing anyway, and with the horrendous racket in the shop I could imagine our shouted conversation. Emil leaning toward me—trying to hear. Me—trying to do a stammering shout. This wasn’t exactly an insight that warmed my heart. So I kept on working and agonizing for hours. Had I lied in saying I was fine? Was I putting my potential embarrassment up as an excuse not to say anything? I ended the day by not speaking up, held back mostly by my instinct that something wasn’t right here. These urgings didn’t feel at all like the impulses that moved me to confess before. Then there had been no doubt. I’d been filled with certainty that the confessions needed to be made. And in the end I’d felt humiliated but clean.

  I knew that any shouted stammering to Emil wouldn’t produce the same thing. These might be a charge of insanity, but not a feeling of cleanness.

  The same thing happened one other time. I did something wrong that involved another person. The result was crushing guilt. To resolve it, should I or should I not write and confess? For the other person’s part, I knew it would simply be a matter of apologizing. I asked around for advice from those I dared. Mom didn’t really know, but from others and the sermons at church, the advice leaned heavily toward full confession of all minutia. When a person is trying to do right, it seems the pendulum swings fully to one side, helped on, I highly suspect, by the unseen tormentors on the other side. And that was what pulled me out of the depression more than anything. The certainty that this had become some sort of game. That no matter how many times I scored, the goalposts would be moved yet farther away.

  I concluded that it didn’t feel like this guilt came from God, who had pursued me with love. I’ve seen nothing since to persuade me otherwise. A conscience isn’t a reliable barometer. It can be manipulated as well as seared.

  From somewhere I obtained a copy of Hannah Whitall Smith’s book The Christian’s Secret of a Happy Life, which I devoured from cover to cover. It was the first theology book I’d ever read. I heard the call to remain faithful to the God who had called me and to the manner in which He had called me. I smiled at Smith’s description of Christians who don’t wish their heads removed in order to deal with their Christian headaches, but who don’t know any other way out. They live with the headache. My Christianity certainly was giving me headaches, so I eagerly read on for whatever advice she would offer. Her message was simple enough. I was to give my burden to the Lord, and I was to fully depend on His sufficiency.

  In one chapter she tells of a weary traveler who is offered a lift by a passing wagon, which he cheerfully accepts. Soon, though, the driver is perplexed as the traveler, now seated in the wagon, still has his luggage hanging over his shoulder.

  “Why don’t you set it down?” the driver asked.

  To which the traveler responds, “I don’t want your wagon carrying everything.”

  That message was clear enough! Rest in God while He is carrying you.

  In Smith’s book, the life of God was also clearly set forth as something we were given, not something we attain ourselves. This agreed with what I was hearing at the church house and with my own experience. I had not gone looking for God; He had come looking for me. Mrs. Smith held up faith over feelings by pointing out the many ways feelings can be misleading. Her words were water to my thirsty soul as I searched for truth through the torrents of emotions I was often overwhelmed with.

  By believing comes certainty, she said. Not by feeling. And to believe, a person must know what God has said.

  Mrs. Smith quoted Francois Fenelon, someone I’d never heard of, but I sure liked the quote: “True religion resides in the will alone.” Feelings, I read, follow the will. With that knowledge, I was determined to proceed forward in my Christian life.

  I would quote Smith for years to come on the subject of guidance. That first a person must come to a complete surrender to the will of God, followed by the four-legged stool of the Scriptures, the advice of others, personal leading, and providential circumstances.

  Mom n
oticed a marked difference in my attitude and wondered what was making the change. I told her it was the book I’d just read, mentioning the title and author’s name. She asked me a few questions about what I’d learned and seemed satisfied with my answers.

  I wasn’t fully aware until years later the gift I had been given. That book, falling into my hands at that time, was a great blessing. It would affect in so many ways how I came to view the Christian life. And when years later I stumbled onto C.S. Lewis and George MacDonald, it was like coming home to the familiar.

  Chapter 38

  Isidro Gallo was a local man who lived near the end of our lane. I saw him a few times a week, mostly from a distance. He owned a nice house and considerable land for a native. We called him by his last name, Gallo, which in Spanish means “rooster.” The name was perfect for him. The man strutted up and down the road like one of the roosters in his yard.

  Gallo was hardworking. He grew produce across the river and picked up a lot about farming from watching what the Amish did. He learned our irrigation techniques and found seed lines we used. In his own way, Gallo was well-educated. He was always friendly to me, although I didn’t have much in-depth contact with him. I could see his produce patch across the river when we tended the river bottom of Uncle Stephen’s old farm, but Gallo rarely made a peep in our direction.

  He wasn’t a neighborly man…until he started showing up more often at Uncle Joe’s. It seems Gallo’s interest had expanded beyond learning Amish farming methods. His interest now included Uncle Joe’s eldest daughter, Rosanna.

  The fact became apparent to Uncle Joe when Gallo’s business encounters with the family not only increased, but began to move far beyond that. It seemed like he was looking for every excuse possible to stop by and help out wherever he could. He even took to doing guard tours on Uncle Joe’s farm every night, especially after midnight when the thieves were reputed to be the busiest. Gallo made sure that Uncle Joe’s household was aware each night of his kindly ministrations.